We are Full of Stories to be Told
by thewaitwasworthitlove
Summary: After Clara enters the Doctor's time stream, he goes back to his little Victorian cloud to think, but he's interrupted by a phone call. It changes everything. And so, they begin on the most terrible, beautiful journey of their ancient lives.
1. Clara

**A/N: So I spent my week at home watching Doctor Who and feeling my soul get ripped out. Matt's not the doctor and that makes me so sad. I wrote this to make myself better. Written to take place the evening of "The Name of the Doctor." **

He'd heard an Earth scientist say once that there were a million-million inhabitable planets in the known universe.

_Rubbish_, he thought to himself. Then again, when your "known universe" consisted of about a thimble full of an ocean's water, he figured it wasn't a half-bad estimate.

So why was it out of a billion-billion planets and a trillion-trillion-trillion creatures, this short, bossy girl with a funny nose, no real chin to speak of (not by _his _standards anyway), and a big set of warm brown eyes made his hearts thump and thud unevenly in his chest?

She'd look up at him asking for the stars and all he could do is fiddle with his hands and give in, give her worlds just so he could see her grin at him, giddy with the promise of a new adventure. Every Wednesday, after delivering her safely home, he'd go to his little cloud nestled in the heart of 19th century London. He'd told himself, and her, no more clouds, no more isolation, but he rather liked it here sometimes. True, every time he went up the stairs, he'd wince at the thought of Clara being pulled off the edge. He was sure he'd hate the sound of satin and taffeta snapping in the wind for the rest of his life. But, it was a quiet place. It helped him clear his mind.

Here he was here again, sitting boldly on the edge of the cloud, his legs dangling over the edge. He couldn't very well keep doing this, any of this. When had he first realized he loved Clara Oswald? When he found himself face to face with what he'd dreaded the whole time in the Dalek asylum? Was it when she popped through the top of his carriage in what was supposed to be a very calm, removed Victorian Britain? Was it when she'd said yes, she would go away with him, and he'd felt his hearts beat off rhythm with one another, as giddy as a man proposing to a lover?

Maybe it was earlier this evening when he'd finally been able to say good bye to River the only way in which she'd accept, finally burying part of the past. Possibly when he broke every single rule he hadn't already broken and entered his own bloody time stream because she'd been stupid enough and magnificent enough to sacrifice herself for him? Or maybe, it was during one of the thousand encounters they'd had over just as many years, her saving him, chasing after and chomping at the bit to die for him. How much of her blood did he already have on his hands?

Even now that all the mysteries should be solved, there were more questions clinging to the air like a thick mist clouding his better judgment. Always so many damned questions, too many questions when it came to Clara. She was impossible. His impossible girl. Too perfect too, if he was being honest with himself. She always seemed to know just the right thing to do. The right thing to say. He looked around him, London shining below him and the TARDIS behind him to the left, lights glowing from the glass panes. She'd been given a word, a single word and she'd managed to say the one single word that would rouse him from what had been _quite_ the two hundred year pout and end his time as the lording time lord, Lord of London.

_Pond._

He smiled sadly remembering Amelia, hoping she was truly happy. Not that she really, actually, properly existed yet. He'd had no real trouble letting her go to Rory, if he was being honest. It'd made sense. Besides, he'd always wanted the best for Amy; there never a possibility that meant him. So, why couldn't he just do the same with Clara? If he_ had_ any sense, he'd go to her right now, and lay it all out to her, explain why he, though undyingly grateful for her, needed to pull away. It was time to move on.

He knew better. He was the man who'd stayed in a jail cell with two other reincarnations of himself without checking to see if the door was locked, after all. Sense didn't seem to always be his strong suit. It's not like it'd matter anyway. She'd look at him and laugh. Give him a hug, her small frame wrapping around him and reach up, a soft hand resting on his jaw. She'd say whatever it took to stay, whatever it took to break his already crumbling will.

He looked out at the London skyline, softer before all those electric lights and skyscrapers, but still burning and churning under him. Maybe a thousand lives and deaths had prepared her for this. He laughed quietly to himself. It would, of course be his sodding luck. The time lord who doesn't die, who hates endings and death and the girl who'd died countless times at his feet.

His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ring of the Police Box phone. Sighing, he scooted back from the edge, got up, and went over to her.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Doctor," The voice said, pleading. It was Clara. His Clara.

Wasn't it always?

She continued talking rapidly. She was obviously scared.

"Clara, what's wrong?" he asked, unable to make any sense of her murmured chatter.

Her only response was some sniffles and sobs. That was enough for him.

No sooner had he closed the Door of the TARDIS did it seem he was opening them again. Here he was, with a wiz and a bang tucked up in the Maitland's attic bedroom. The lights were off except for one tiny desk lamp, stepping out of the TARDIS and into the room, he saw her crumpled up at the foot of the bed, shoulders silently heaving.

He didn't say anything, just scooped her up off of the floor and carried her to her bed. He sat there, head leaning against the headboard and cradled her on his lap until the crying quieted, her tears sinking through his shirt. He'd known the fallout from this wasn't going to be pretty, and he braced himself when she began talking.

She told him about all those deaths, the pain of them all bearing down on her at once. The sorrow of knowing her life's purpose was to live, to run, to die over and over again grinding down on her soul. He'd give anything to make her stop hurting, to stop talking. But, she needed this and he deserved to hear her out, his beautiful, wonderful girl, describing how he had wrecked her life over and over again.

After a while, they were quiet. He thought she'd nodded off when she began to speak again.

"Doctor?"

"Hmmm?" He asked soothingly, one of his hands drawing circles on her back.

"You know what the absolute worst part of all of it is?"

"What's that?"

"Now that it's over," she said pulling away from him and looking into his eyes, "Now that I've served my purpose, you're just going to climb in that shiny blue box and leave me here because you blame yourself. You're going to run, just like I always told you to. You aren't gonna stop running until you're so far away from me. Maybe you'll find some other person, willing to go with you into the night. You'll leave me here to chase after you, always a day late, always a second off from you."

He studied her face, tear stained, lower lip trembling slightly, eyes glassy and wet. True to form, she'd said the perfect thing, but this time she'd said the perfect thing to let him go. All he had to do was stay silent. He'd hold her until she went to sleep and by morning, he'd be gone, off to his next big dance with a long overdue destiny. But looking at her there, hair rumpled, dressed in an old nightgown and robe, he tilted his head slightly and instead chuckled.

"Clara Oswald. Rule number one is that we don't walk away, and if," he said breaking to clear off the last of her tears, his hand staying to cup her face, "if we have something precious, we run." He rubbed his thumb lightly against the skin of her cheek bone and searched her eyes. She smiled at the memory of his words. They sounded like the perfect exit. He was going to run, run, run, but then he continued. "We run _with_ it and we don't look back, understood?"

He brought up his other hand and clutched her face before bringing his lips softly to meet hers, depositing the softest whisper of a kiss there.

Out of a billion-billion planets and a trillion-trillion-trillion creatures, he sat there and chose her, just as she'd chosen him a thousand times before.

His Clara, his impossible girl.


	2. The Doctor

After her mum had died, she had dreamed of being able to cheat death. She'd always wanted to travel, and how marvelous would it be to be able to live whole lives in all those places she'd dreamed of visiting? What a curse human beings lived such a short time.

_Rubbish_, she thought to herself.

There were reasons humans die when they do. Otherwise there was too much pain. Clara's head reeled from the lives now vying for space in her brain.

She sat at the desk, its lamp the lone light glowing in her attic room. Her cup of tea was slowly going cold. She'd tried to make a list of all the lives, all the echoes, but it was rather like standing in the middle of a medical bay during a war. Here are all the wounded, you're the nurse. They're all screaming for you, needing you to fix them. You try, but who are you fooling; sometimes, there's nothing to be done.

_Well_, she thought, _that was specific. Add war nurse to the list. _

It was impossible, she realized, to keep track of all of them. Some were so hazy she could barely make out her name, whispers of lives lived. Others so vibrantly clear that she couldn't entirely be sure they hadn't been just as real as this life. There were a few like that, and her pen began moving against the paper, her eyes closed, focusing on recording those. She just wrote. God knows what it'd look like. When she looked down, she saw scrawling across the page—five lives. She smiled bitterly. A thousand-thousand lives and The Five were all she really had to show for it.

**Dalek**

**Snow **

**Home **

**Time Lord**

**Me**

She reached instinctively for her phone. The Doctor would like to hear about this.

_The Doctor. _

Reflexing from the pain of the thought, she removed her hand like the phone had burned her. How the hell was she ever going to face him? She hated him. She loved him. She stood up walking back and forth between her bed and her desk, weighing the options.

If she called him, if she admitted to herself that she needed him, she'd break. She'd see that goofy lopsided grin of his and lose the fragile hold on what was left of her reserve. She'd have to tell him. Lay all her lives at his feet. He'd look at her with those wide, honest eyes and she'd tell him. He'd listen silently, but she'd watch the changes in his face. His brow would furrow, his hands would wring, his head would bow. He'd take them on himself. Another cross for him to bear. After spending a thousand years protecting him, she couldn't bring herself to cause him more pain. Worse yet, he'd run. He was good at running, with the right encouragement. He'd distance himself from her so he was sure not to hurt her any more.

On the other hand, if she didn't call him, she'd burn like this, haunted from a million-million memories with no one to tell. Howlong could she keep a tenuous grip on reality? He'd come back next Wednesday, but what would he find? Would any of her still be here by then? What scraps of her would be left? Could she just jump back into the TARDIS, ready for another adventure? What if they went somewhere, and there she'd find herself face to face with another version of herself? When would it all come pouring out of her?

Her reserve crumbled at last. She grabbed her phone off of the desk and sunk at the foot of her bed. She dialed the number she had memorized so long ago and waited. It rang five times before she heard the receiver picked up.

"Hello?" she heard a deep, soft voice ask. The Doctor. _Her_ Doctor.

"Doctor," she choked out. The dam was shattered. She started babbling about how much she needed him, how much it hurt. The tears were molten, burning their way down her face.

She vaguely heard him ask her what was wrong, but she was too deep into her grief to reply. The line went dead.

She sobbed into the carpet. Seconds later she heard the familiar _Woosh_ of the TARDIS and then his arms were around her, cradling her into him. He sat them on the bed as she began talking. She told him about all of the insignificant fragments of lives she couldn't properly remember. Sometimes she'd gotten to see him, just for a second before she died. Those were some of the best. Sometimes, she'd been a mother. She wondered what happened to all her children. Her heart ached for them in a way she really didn't understand. Sometimes, she went her whole life without knowing about him. Any alteration she made to his time stream in those lives was incomprehensible, like a butterfly swiping her wings and creating a hurricane.

She told him about all the deaths. Sometimes she was executed as a traitor, sometimes she died of old age, sometimes she killed herself. Sometimes she was peaceful when she died, most of the time she was scared. She felt immeasurably old as she told him about the deaths that she knew he didn't really understand. There were no regenerations for her. At least, none she'd remembered at the time. She'd died over and over, reflecting on her life, wondering if she'd made any difference at all, unable to see the bigger picture. The girl who died a thousand times looking for solace in the man who never did. She'd almost began to tell him about the Five, those lives she'd written down, but she bit her tongue.

He'd stayed, stoic through even the most gruesome parts of her lives. She continued to cry long after she'd stopped talking. Finally, with her heart on the floor, she'd told him her fears about him leaving her, that he'd run away from it all. She waited for the silence. Of course, he'd just mumble something noncommittal, and in the morning, she'd find herself perfectly nestled in her bed, not even an outline of him remaining. Then, after a thousand lives, she'd really, finally know heartbreak. She would lose him. She gulped as she waited for the moment that would wreck her.

Instead, he sat there quietly studying her face. His big, sad eyes examining her carefully.

"Clara Oswald. Rule number one is that we don't walk away, and if," he said breaking to clear off the last of her tears, his hand staying to cup her face, "If we have something precious, we run." He rubbed his thumb lightly against the skin of her cheek bone and searched her eyes. She smiled at the memory of his words, now twisted against her. They sounded like the perfect exit. He was going to run, run, run, leaving her in his wake. Then he continued.

"We run _with_ it and we don't look back, understood?"

He brought up his other hand and clutched her face before bringing his lips gently to her own. The kiss he gave her was so faint for a moment she thought she'd imagined it. An echo of a kiss for the girl with thousands of echoes reverberating through the fabric of time and space. But, when she opened her eyes, he was still there. She looked into his eyes for a long time. Yes, there was sadness there, but something else as well, something so marvelous and terrible that it terrified her, thrilled her with its possibilities. She gave herself over to this, the first good feeling she'd had all evening. She gave herself over to hope and drank deeply from it.

He'd chosen her. Her stupid, brilliant, beautiful Doctor with the preposterous chin, the too big ears, and the kindest eyes she'd seen in a thousand years chose her, just like she'd chosen him over herself countless times before.

The Doctor. _Her_ Doctor.


End file.
